


Run

by blackestfaery



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Canon, F/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-16
Updated: 2013-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-04 20:07:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1085169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackestfaery/pseuds/blackestfaery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione Granger on bicycles, Draco Malfoy, and being nostalgic over drinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Run

**Author's Note:**

> I am beyond honoured to be a part of DHR Advent 2013. I'm a bit rusty all around, but I think I managed to put together something readable. Apologies for the First Person POV, but I couldn't seem to get anything going except when writing in this POV.
> 
> My prompt was _winter holiday_ , which I figured I could very loosely interpret. Here we go!

Do you remember the day when you got your first bicycle?  Your feet dangled down because the seat height was off, and the world was just slightly askew as you wobbled uneasily, like a top losing its spin? You put up with it, because the excitement was too much to wait for your father to adjust the seat. You were seconds away from being _free_. From discovering the adventure waiting at the end of the street.

 

I wish I was there. At the end of the street, I mean. I think I’m a bit stuck at the beginning, because there are days when I feel like my feet still can’t touch the ground.

 

***

 

Armscote is barely a dot on the map if one chooses to look at the county of Warwickshire. Three miles north of Shipston-on-Stour, and with the exception of warm weather, it has everything I want: anonymity, a charming bed & breakfast, which lays claim to the village’s only pub, and one floo that closes promptly at ten every evening. No Owl Post Office (although it doesn’t prevent a determined owl from finding you) or odd section of the hamlet with streets that ran diagonally. Just a typical, sleepy (and mostly Muggle) English village, and why my finger stopped on the map over Armscote of all places I will never know. As a winter holiday destination, I had hopes for someplace far away from everybody.

 

My home away from home is The Fuzzy Duck. It is charming and lovingly maintained, and I have been here for all of forty-eight hours when I hear talk of its newest guest, freshly arrived not two hours ago. I stomp the snow off my boots, shivering at the cool touch of air that follows me in, and freeze as I hear the excited tones of the attendant behind the counter. Charlotte is young, most likely the daughter of a friend of the owner and volun-told to run the graveyard shift, but friendly and, having spotted me, waves me over.

 

“I have just laid eyes on the most _beautiful_ man I have ever seen,” she begins without preamble, practically bouncing in her chair, hand to her heart. With the average age in the village being thirty-five, I suspect that she is rather starved for female company—even if I am still ten years her senior. I tell myself that twenty-eight isn’t old, but my bones say otherwise some days.

 

“’Beautiful’ isn’t exactly the description men strive for, but go on, tell me about him.”

 

She takes a deep breath as I pat down the pockets of my coat for my room key, and it figures I’d be doing something as mundane as sorting through change, cough drops, and my wand when Charlotte drops the bomb on me.

 

“Tall, silver eyes, the palest hair, and a scar right here,” she touches the left side of her mouth as my fingers petrify around my key. My stomach clenches once before bottoming out at my toes. “It makes him look so dashing!”

 

“Quite… dashing,” I manage. I swallow a few times. “Did you get his name?”

 

“Of course! A Mr. Draco Malfoy.” Charlotte leans over the counter and tips her head further down the hall. “Not like I was staring too hard, but he’s in the pub right now and, lucky you, his room is next to yours.”

 

“Lucky me,” I echo. I thank her and mechanically make my way to the double wide entrance of the pub.

 

Words like _terrible coincidence_ and _I was here first_ rattle around in my head as I step into the pub. My eyes find the back of Malfoy’s head instantly, and suddenly, my coat is suffocating. I’m rooted to the spot, caught between making a run for the stairs and seeing that scar for myself. I’m sure he feels the weight of my stare, but we have always had silent ways of communicating. Even with three years between our last encounter and now, the wordless spell is easy to remember. Gripping my wand, I send a trickle of my magic in his direction and feel the moment it pushes and mingles with his.

 

The feeling is so familiar that I ache. Ache so badly that my feet move toward him without any conscious decision on my part, and once I start, I can’t stop until I am beside him. Story of my recent life, it seems.

 

***

 

_Five years ago_

 

His strides are long, one step to two of mine, and I’m sure he does it on purpose. There is no other explanation for him to do this, other than the obvious fact that he’s tall, but I’m in no mood to be reasonable. I do double-time until I pull even with Malfoy and poke him in the ribs, gratified at his wince.

 

“You do realize I am helping you re-integrate into the normal world? Trying to ditch me at your earliest convenience will only convince the parole board that you should head straight back into Azkaban.”

 

“This world has always been mine, Granger,” Malfoy spares me a glance before weaving around another _Prophet_ photographer. The flash blinds us both, but the man’s shout is drowned out by distance. “Recent years and the Ministry’s greedy little fingers notwithstanding, I am a Malfoy and I _will_ get everything back.”

 

“You’re that sure?”

 

“I am.” The savagery of his tone makes my feet catch against themselves, but his hand is at my elbow. He steadies me before pulling away. I rub at the residual heat, unnerved.

 

“Come along, Granger,” he calls, and I realize he has left me behind yet again. “I wouldn’t want to lose my shadow on my first day of freedom.”

 

***

 

He greets me with a nudge to the barstool beside him and a tap on the bar. A twin to what he’s nursing slides to a stop in front of me as I sit down. My feet dangle until I find the footrest. The black shelves behind the silent bartender stretch all the way to the ceiling, and I’m at once grateful and chagrined that there isn’t a mirror to look at him by. I roll the glass between my hands and play with the condensation as he takes a drink of his. I want to look at him so, so badly, and yet—

 

“Granger.”

 

And there goes any reason I have to hesitate, because even after everything, he still says my name like he’s got exclusive rights to it. In a way, he does. Malfoy isn’t the only one who addresses me by my last name, but oddly enough, he is who I associate the idiosyncrasy with the most.

 

***

 

_Four years ago_

 

Thursday night dinners are at Harry and Ginny’s place. Ginny’s always game to flex the culinary skills that Molly has passed down to her, and tonight is no exception. Harry and Ron demolish what Ginny and I cannot finish, and once Quidditch scores and player performances have been hashed over, talk inevitably turns to, what Ron calls, my “pet project.”

 

“He’s doing very well,” I start and see that Ron’s eyes have begun to roll. “Well, he is! Malfoy was not a stupid student at Hogwarts, so I fail to see why you’d doubt that he could get on after his time in Azkaban.”

 

“Oh, I doubt it. Even with Harry’s testimony, the guy’s reputation has been shot to pieces. He’s only keeping his head above water because you do so much for him, Hermione. You’re practically at his beck and call.”

 

“I am not.” What I am tempted to do is tell Ron that aside from minor guidance from me regarding policy changes and money management, Malfoy has done all the work on his own and is setting himself up to truly get everything back, just like he said he would.

 

Despite my reluctance in giving details, Ron’s apparently not done, and Harry and Ginny have long since learned to let him simply get it out of his system. He smooths his hair back with one hand as the other picks up his cup, pinky extended.

 

“Oi, Granger, tuck me in, I don’t know how to do it myself. And, Granger, for tomorrow’s breakfast, can you make sure to stir my tea clockwise? I noticed you stirred it counter this morning, and it just doesn’t taste the same.”

 

I smile despite myself, but the sound of my last name sounds off on Ron’s lips. It’s not because I’m used to hearing Ron say my first name, although that’s true. It’s because he’s not even doing Malfoy’s version of my name _right_.

 

I’m reminded of this the next day as I drop a steaming cup of tea at his desk on my way to my own. Malfoy’s got a hand buried in his hair, but he straightens as the bottom of the cup hits his desk. I busy myself with the morning’s post but fail to hide my smile as the sound of his sigh reaches me.

 

“You’re a bloody mind reader, Granger.”

 

His voice is sincere, if rough first thing in the morning, and I think yet again that Ron’s impression is way off.

 

***

 

“Malfoy.”

 

I’m relieved to hear that my voice is normal, because everything is shaking inside me. From his proximity and the nervousness creeping into my extremities, but mostly because my mind has already jumped to the point _after_ we finish our talk here; where he follows me up the stairs to the second floor and we hesitate somewhere between his door and mine.

 

“Don’t tell me Armscote is where you chose to hide after your break up with Weasley?”

 

I’m not surprised that he knows about my broken engagement. It was _The Prophet’s_ favourite topic for weeks on end.

 

“I am not hiding,” I clarify before taking a sip. Whatever it is, it smooths its way down my throat before leaving a trail of fire in its wake. To my credit, I manage to control my coughing after a handful of full body shudders and muster on under his amused gaze. “I just happen to be terrible at picking places to vacation.”

 

“Closed your eyes and pointed on a map of England, did you?”

 

His guess is dead on, damn him, but I will never let him know. “And you?” I say after taking a much smaller sip of my glass. “What reason do you have to be in Armscote? Escaping the hordes of eligible young ladies salivating over your regained fortune?”

 

His bark of laughter is muted in the quiet pub, but as he turns his face fully towards me for the first time, I see the scar again and think _oh_.

 

Right. I’m such an idiot.

 

***

 

_Three years ago_

Despite multiple trials, a stint in Azkaban, and firsthand knowledge of the blood, sweat, and tears it took to work his way back to the top, Malfoy still retained a part of his old self that just couldn’t help but show off his fortune and rub Harry and Ron’s faces in it. After two years of hearing it from Ron (and Harry by proxy because he didn’t help one bit), I am more than happy to let Malfoy preen for the night.

 

He has rented out an extravagant venue to the tune of something that made my jaw drop open and turned it out in the best of style. Crystal glittered off every flat surface, trays of food continuously changed its offerings without ever seeming to diminish, and the light of hundreds of candles set everything aglow. It successfully distracted everyone but those in the know from the blaring message that Malfoy Manor was Draco Malfoy’s alone, and no one employed by the Ministry would ever step inside its walls ever again.

 

I suppose the exception to that rule is me.

 

I eat and dance, dance and eat. Colours and names and scents swirl until I’m sure I can’t take a moment more of any of it. I turn in the general direction of the veranda doors and start only slightly at the warm grip at my elbow. I look up and meet Malfoy’s eyes.

 

“Lightweight.”

 

“Absolutely.”

 

The cool air hits me like a wall, and I welcome the reprieve from the dull roar of the hall. Beside me Malfoy nods to a passing couple before offering me his elbow. We wander down into the gardens, the night swallowing us. We talk quietly of the changes Malfoy has made in his life in the past two years, the end of my contract with the Ministry, and even briefly of his stay in Azkaban. He doesn’t clam up like he used to in the beginning but he is not generous with the details either, and I marvel at the ease with which I tease him about it.

 

We stop under the branches of a spreading oak, and he plays with the cuff of his robes. I recognize the nervousness in his gesture only because he has so few tells. I’m about to ask what’s wrong when he turns to me.

 

“Consider this a thank you, Granger. For being my shadow when I didn’t want one,” I roll my eyes at this, “and…not giving up on me despite what I’m sure were _solid_ arguments from Weasley.”

 

“Get on with it, Malfoy, before the moment’s completely ruined.” I briefly consider what his gift to me will be, but it’s nothing that I expected.

 

He touches the scar at the seam to the left of his mouth. “I got this scar on my first day in Azkaban. Policing inside the cells is nonexistent, and I was cornered by some low-level Death Eater. Couldn’t tell you who, but I remember the makeshift knife he shoved in my mouth. He wanted my tongue, you see—for _“telling lies about our Dark Lord”_ —but I turned away in time. Caught the side of my mouth, of course, and the guards only check on you once every twelve hours.By then, no amount of healing could make the scar go away.”

 

We both know he could apply a glamour to it, and it would seem like it never happened. But if there’s one thing that Malfoy is greater at than being vain, it’s being proud. The scar is a visible reminder to everyone of how low he’d fallen and just how high he managed to climb back to. I’m speechless for long moments after and snap to attention only when he steps closer.

 

“There’s a second part,” he whispers, and I instinctively know what’s coming because, honestly, I was hoping for it.

 

I get one taste of Malfoy. One brief press of lips and the sensation of his chest drawing breath against mine before he is knocked away, and my eyes open to see the mottled profile of Ron’s face before me.

 

“You fucking stay away from her, Malfoy,” he sneers. Ron’s smart enough to not try for another punch. He grabs for my arm instead. “Whatever she was doing for you as your babysitter ends tonight. Her contract is finished.”

 

I try to pull away but Ron just yanks me back. It’s a tug of war that ends with Malfoy’s wand pointed at Ron’s temple and my screaming for Malfoy to stop.

 

“Let her go,” Malfoy growls and Ron drops my arm as if it burns him.

 

“Oh please, try it. I’ll have you back behind bars before sunrise.”

 

“Her contract with the Ministry may end tonight, but Granger is free to choose who she wants to associate with.” Malfoy’s words are careful as he lowers his wand. He looks my way, and I panic at the thought that he wants me to make a decision right now. He must see it in my eyes because the tension drops from his shoulders. I can’t help but feel like I have failed him in some way.

 

“When you make up your mind, come find me.”

 

***

 

It takes me three years to make up my mind. Three years to build Ron and the Weasleys’ hopes up because I was just tired from any sort of conflict and wouldn’t it just be easier to pick up where we left off in Hogwarts? And it really was that. The bickering and awkward half-apologies remained and the bearing of it all because _that’s just who he is, Hermione_.

 

I eventually reached a point where the thought of bearing it through happily ever after sounded like the world’s greatest oxymoron.

 

Both our glasses are empty now, and the bartender announces last call. We both shake our heads, but neither of us move towards the door. There’s a tentative press of his foot against mine.

 

“So what’s there to do in Armscote?” Malfoy asks.

 

“Not much, I’m afraid. We can always expand our circle to all of Warwickshire,” I suggest and see his nod. My foot presses back.

 

“We’ll do that then.”

 

***

 

My feet touch down, and my suspicions are confirmed. The end of the street really is a new adventure.

**Author's Note:**

> No digs at Armscote intended. In fact, I fell a bit in love with The Fuzzy Duck while doing my research.


End file.
